


anthem for doomed youth

by orphan_account



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Fall of Gondolin, For a Friend, Gen, Glorfindel And Ecthelion's Kid Survives The Fall of Gondolin, Hurt No Comfort, Literally One Person Will Read This And That's Valid, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Original Character Death(s), That Doesn't Mean Things Go Well For Them, They're A Teenager Though, Third Kinslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 21:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20198491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes, when they are alone late in the night, they will allow themself to remember Gondolin. They will unwrap those precious memories from the buried, hidden place in their chest where they have locked them away. At once they can see the shining city again, smell the mountain air sweet in their nose, hear the sound of cold water running through the fountains. They can recall their fathers. They remember lullabies and strong arms holding them close. Just for a moment, they can remember what it was not to be afraid. But then comes the memory of how it was all lost, comes burning buildings and screaming in terror, the grinding screech of Morgoth's war machines against the walls, and the split second of shock on their father's face when the balrog had caught hold of him and dragged him over the cliff.Though they never allow themself to feel any of these things, save when there is no one to hear them weep, they are never far from Laitar's mind.And so when the Fëanorian host descends upon them and Sirion burns, the sight is almost familiar.-In which Glorfindel and Ecthelion are survived by their child, for a time. The surviving sons of Fëanor are kind enough to reunite them. It is not a happy event.





	anthem for doomed youth

The Havens are lost. The Fëanorian host has made it to the upper, seaward part of the city. The crackling sound of burning buildings, the singing of steel swords striking each other, and the groans of the dying fill the air. Once, this upper courtyard had been the scene of dances and musicians entertaining the people. Here, philosophers had debated the fates of Men and Elves. They need debate no longer. Mortals and immortals lie dead together on the white paving stones, their lifeblood mixing there and staining the streets crimson and disgustingly slick. 

The sons of Fëanor cannot stop until they have the Silmaril or they are dead, and only one has fallen thus far. It is, at least, proof they can be killed. 

Laitar has been fighting for hours. They had begun the day on the outer walls, been there to see the first soldiers fall. With every retreat, they have fallen farther back into the city with the survivors, but they know it is near the end now. They are weary, their body aching and their heart all but gone. 

But still, they fight on. 

Laitar had barely even held a sword when Gondolin fell. They had been a child, fond of music and books and baking sweets with their Atar. But then, both of their fathers had died. Glorfindel, right before their eyes. And so it was that an elfling of twenty-five summers had found themself Lord of the Fountain and of the Golden Flower and, to the people of those houses, the last semblance of hope. And so, though no one had asked it of them, they had picked up a weapon light enough for them to carry and trained and bled and sweat until they were a swordsman to rival any of the surviving Gondolindrim. Someone had to carry their people onward and there was no one else but them, even if they were not as strong as their fathers. 

Now, Laitar thinks of brave Glorfindel and valiant Ecthelion and forces themself to continue fighting. Their moves are graceless and heavy by now, but they have the advantage of size. Even though barely grown, they are the child of Glorfindel, who had been the tallest of the Noldor save Turgon or Maedhros. 

They kill another of Maglor’s men without trouble and hate that the feel of elvish blood on their hands is becoming familiar. 

Egalmoth stands with them now, here at the end of it, but it is only them and perhaps enough soldiers to count on their hands that still defend Sirion. 

Their backs are to the keep, which is the last thing between Elwing and her sons and Fëanorian blades. 

Egalmoth engages Maedhros with a fierce battle cry, leaping at him like a man possessed. Maglor is held off for the time being by several men.

“Laetor! Laetor!” comes a choked wail from their left side. Though they hear the butchered sindarization of their father-name, Laitar cannot look immediately. They are too busy with some dark-haired Noldo who might’ve been a kinsman in another life. With a grunt, they drive their sword through the elf’s chest. 

Then, they turn to look. Whoever had called for them was dead, as much was clear, seemingly killed by Ambarussa, who advances on them next. With effort, they raise their sword and the fight begins anew. 

Both of them are too exhausted for any elegant sort of fight. It is sheerly power against power, will against will. There is only the clanging of steel mixing with the smoke in the air, only the burning of muscles all but ready to collapse. 

Laitar matches him for every move, blocking and parrying and returning every swing. 

Amrod or Amras, they neither know nor care which it is, has an unnerving, dead look to him, like there is nothing behind his eyes. Perhaps it is because his brother is already dead. Perhaps the oath has simply twisted him that far. It doesn’t matter. The fight continues, neither able to break through. 

Finally, at long last, there is an opportunity and Laitar stabs him straight through the stomach. It is a fatal wound, surely, but before they can withdraw their sword, Ambarussa lunges forward, impaling himself further.

In their confusion, Laitar does not realize he has drawn a short knife from his belt.

There is a dull thunk and a disgusting squelch as the knife goes straight through their throat. 

Laitar gasps sharply, but can find no air. They fall, choking, grasping at their throat, drowning as surely as their father had. 

From far away, they hear Egalmoth scream. 

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. They can’t breathe. Terror closes in. 

_ I don’t want to die _ . _ Atto, please, I don’t want to die. Atar, help me! I’m frightened, I’m frightened. PLEASE! _

* * *

The Halls of Mandos are a strange place in that they are, in some ways, not a place at all. Surely there was some physical aspect to them, space they took up in Valinor, and yet, within them, nothing seemed to abide by the rules that the living world had. One moment, Ecthelion is in some private place, the light of his fëa mingling with Glorfindel’s as they walked through their memories together. The next, he finds himself standing in the same great hall he had come to when he had first died. He turns to find Glorfindel still beside him. 

The hall is of gray stone, dimly lit as though in twilight. Around the edges of the hall, hundreds of fëar are gathered almost expectantly, as though they’ve all been summoned for something. At the center is Námo, shining and terrible. 

A golden fëa comes over to them. It is Finrod, he realizes, and something has disquieted him. 

“What is happening?” asks Glorfindel.

“Usually, this means some tragedy has befallen us. It was like this after the Nirnaeth, and when Doriath was sacked, and when you arrived, though you would be too disoriented to recall. Many fëar are about to arrive.” Finrod replies. 

This discomfits Ecthelion and he can feel Glorfindel’s spirit shift in worry. News is hard to come by here and only arrives by way of the newly deceased. Often times, the poor souls are too tormented to tell them very much. 

Not long after, it begins. Fëar light up the dim room, several arriving all together. They are all manner of colors, shimmering and shaking. It is apparent to Ecthelion that Finrod was right about some tragedy, for the spirits shake and cry out. 

“The Sons of Fëanor!” one shouts, as though to warn them. “The sons of Fëanor are come for the Silmaril!” 

The hall seems to constrict around them as many souls, those from Doriath and Alqualondë both, grow terrible in rage.

“Sirion will fall!” cries another.

Sirion? The havens where the Doriathrim had fled to, then?

“May they find peace here.” says Glorfindel, his voice hard in Ecthelion's mind. It is not hard to understand why. How terrible it must be for them, he thinks, to have survived Doriath only to be pursued to some new home and then slain. 

Time passes and more spirits arrive, until there are so many that the light is blinding, all crying out. They are greeted by their kin who would be weeping if they had eyes with which to produce tears.

Then, Ecthelion catches sight of someone familiar. 

“Wait! That man there,” he calls out “He is of Gondolin. He was of my house!”

Why is a man of Gondolin in Sirion? Why would he—oh. _ oh _. Gondolin had fallen less than five years after Doriath, if they’d been looking for refuge they would’ve gone— no. no. no, please, no. 

Glorfindel realizes at the same instant and cries out in his mind. 

He is sure he would’ve known if his child were here, but he begins to look among the spirits frantically. His whole fëa is shaking. Not his baby, _ not his baby _, not like this. 

Spirits continue to materialize around him, but none of them are the one he fears to see. 

Eventually, Amras arrives, but is quickly led away by a maia before the fëar around him can turn on him. 

Glorfindel and Ecthelion hardly notice. Both wait, watching the slow trickle of slain elves and fearing who will arrive next. They cling to each other for comfort, but there is no soothing this.

Their child is in danger. 

The number of spirits arriving slows. Cautiously, they begin to hope. Perhaps Laitar has escaped or at least they had mercy on them. They are only a child after all, not yet of age for a few more years. Surely, no one could look into that beloved face and mean them any harm.

Amrod materializes. Nothing has ever kept the twins apart for long and now, it seems, is no exception. 

There is a moment of awful, stretching stillness, the atmosphere thick with something Ecthelion cannot name and then, right at his side, another fëa appears. It is small and dim, its light almost burned out, and it trembles. 

He would know it anywhere. 

He is helpless to stop the cry of anguish and horror that comes out of him. _ Who has done this to you? My baby, my own child, how could they? What have they done? _

Glorfindel’s spirit has broken into sobs by the time they get to Laitar. He can feel his pain and rage leaving him in waves. 

Laitar does not seem aware of them. Ecthelion and Glorfindel try to encircle their fëa with their own to comfort them, but Laitar struggles against them. 

In their panic, it seems, they have not yet realized they are dead. Souls tended to take on whatever look they remembered their body having, at least at first. And so slowly the ball of light that is their child becomes an elf. 

Ecthelion goes still with shock. Laitar is older than he remembers them being, tall and broad like Glorfindel, but it is not that. There is a sword, or rather, the memory of a sword, by their side and they are covered in dark blood, far too much to be only their own. 

_ You fought. You fought and they slaughtered you like an animal. _

Laitar is writhing where they lay, clawing at their throat and as Ecthelion moves to try and comfort them again, he realizes what it is they are reaching for. 

His child, the little being he had brought into the world and held when they were born, who he had sung to with Glorfindel, tucked into bed each night with kisses on their brow, held and loved and nourished every second for twenty five years is laying with their throat split open and struggling to breathe. If Ecthelion had a body with which to vomit, he would. His spirit retches and he wants to scream. He wants to know who has done this to them, he wants to murder them, to make them suffer before they die. He has seen war and death and suffering and this is still, without a doubt, the worst thing he has ever laid eyes on or ever will. He thinks he can hear his heart shatter.

Laitar struggles again when they try to come nearer. Glorfindel tries talking. 

“Love, it’s Atar. You are safe now. You are not hurting anymore.” he chokes out, his whole spirit trembling. 

Laitar does not seem to hear, crying out in panic and calling for help. 

Finally, Ecthelion manages to touch his fëa to his child’s and, at once, Laitar goes entirely still. 

“Atto?” they call, uncertain. 

Rather than answer, Ecthelion wraps up the little spirit in his own, cradling them. Glorfindel comes to their other side, focusing all his energy on Laitar. 

Both of them can feel all the raw and ragged places on their child’s fëa that were not there when they left them. 

Silently, Ecthelion swears an oath so solemn he feels it settle in his very being, in all the aspects of his existence in Arda: He will see this made right again. He will see Laitar healed. And he will never let harm come to them again.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> * this is from a very specific au that a friend and I have developed. If anyone would like to read more of it, let me know.  
** a lot of this is sort of from the perspective of one who is actively being murdered by the fëanorians or whose child has just been killed by them. so you might get a somewhat anti-fëanorian perspective from them because that makes sense. it doesn't mean the author is anti-fëanorian.  
the title is from the following poem:  
"what passing-bells for those who die as cattle?  
\- only the monstrous anger of the guns.  
only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle  
can patter out their hasty orisons.  
no mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;  
nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -  
the shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;  
and bugles calling for them from sad shires.
> 
> what candles may be held to speed them all?  
not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes  
shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.  
the pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;  
their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,  
and each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds."  
\- anthem for doomed youth, wilfred owen, 1917.  
**** laitar is a masculine non binary person, and is referred to only with they/them pronouns.


End file.
